


The Harden Trade

by nahco3



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the front office trades Harden to the Rockets, Russell calls Kevin. It’s not a decision so much as an instinct, something unconscious, like finding the lane, knowing the pass from Kevin is coming. Like muscle memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harden Trade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlerhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy this.

_October, 2012 -_

When the front office trades Harden to the Rockets, Russell calls Kevin. It’s not a decision so much as an instinct, something unconscious, like finding the lane, knowing the pass from Kevin is coming. Like muscle memory.

Kevin answers on the third ring. 

“You see?” Kevin asks, without preamble. His voice is tight, like he might have been crying.

“Yeah,” Russell says. He’s tired. It’s after eleven, he was in bed, half asleep when his agent called him with the news. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He doesn’t want this to be happening.

"You pissed?" Kevin asks. 

"Give me ten minutes and I will be," Russell says. "I mean, it's total fucking bullshit. We were supposed to be - whatever."

Russell stops, not sure how he was going to finish that sentence. We were supposed to be friends, supposed to be a dynasty, supposed to be champions by now. 

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Kevin asks. Maybe he’s still crying. Shit. 

“Win,” Russell says. “What other options do we have? Who did they even get for him?” He shifts the phone to his other ear, lying back in bed, his eyes closed. The world seems narrowed down to him and Kevin. Kevin’s breathing is rough in his ear, and he doesn’t know what to do. It feels like the bottom’s dropped out of everything.

“A fucking rookie, some guard who was injured half of last season and a couple of draft picks,” Kevin says. “Fuck, Russ.” 

“This is on us now,” Russell says, their new reality dawning on him. “We gotta do this because we aren’t going to get any fucking help.” 

Kevin’s quiet for a long time. Russell tries to imagine him. Sitting by himself on his couch, maybe. Trying to handle someone else dying or leaving - his dad and his aunt and his coach and now James. Kevin always takes things harder than Russell, holds stuff inside of him. It isn’t good.

“Kev?” Russell asks. “You ok? I know you got me, man. We’re brothers, we can do this.”

“Yeah,” Kevin says. He doesn’t sound good. “Brothers.” It sounds forced out of him. On the other end of the line Russell can hear him sniff, wipe his eyes. 

“We got this,” Russell says again, trying to get angry with James for not just taking what the team offered him, with the team for being so fucking cheap, trying to feel anything but this horrible emptiness in his chest, a hole that gapes more deeply each time he hears Kevin’s breath catch.

“I know we do,” Kevin says. “You and me can do anything.” He sounds a little better, at least.

“Exactly,” Russell says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?”

“Good night, Russ,” Kevin says, but he stays on the line until Russell hangs up. 

The next morning, Russell drives to practice while the sun is rising. It’s grey and cold, the preamble to morning. Russell eats a protein bar as he drives, speeding through the yellows. He didn’t sleep well last night, his mind turning over and over. He wants to play.

When he gets to practice, Kevin’s car is already there, pulled up next to the door.

“Fucker,” Russell says, to the empty parking lot, but he’s almost happy about it. The normalcy of it, the push of it. Just because Harden is gone doesn’t mean anything has changed. They don’t need anyone but each other.

“Hey asshole,” Russell calls out when he enters the gym. Kevin is still in his warm-ups, stretching. It makes Russ happy, knowing Kevin barely beat him. One missed red light and Russell could have been here first. 

“Hey,” Kevin calls. He looks tired. “Get over here.” 

Russell jogs over to him and Kevin puts a hand out. Russell rolls his eyes and positions himself so Kevin can rest a hand on his shoulder while he stands on one leg, does his quad stretches.

“You need to work on your balance,” Russell says, taking comfort in the routine of insults. “You’re worse than my grandma.” 

Kevin takes his arm off of Russell’s shoulder to rub Russell’s head, just to piss Russell off. Kevin’s hand is huge and warm, and Russell ducks away, unbalancing Kevin, who falls onto him.

Russell keeps Kevin upright, one-handed, his bicep protesting the effort. Kevin’s big, solid. Russell isn’t used to being the one supporting him. 

“What did I say about your balance,” Russell bitches, as he pulls Kevin up. Suddenly, Kevin is back on his feet, chest to chest with Russell. 

“Russ,” Kevin says, his voice quiet in the vastness of the gym. Russell can hear the buzz of the lights above them, marking the silence around them. “Do you think they’d trade one of us?”

Russell shakes his head. “They’re not that stupid.” It’s true; teams wait decades for a player like him, a player like Kevin. But he can tell Kevin’s shaken up, something deep within him come loose. Kevin isn’t good with endings, has lost too many people, too fast. Russell doesn’t worry about the future, has a confidence in himself and in Kevin to work things out, but Kevin worries about what’s coming next.

“But. If. There’s something I have to tell you.” Kevin’s looking straight down at Russell, his eyes locked on him, his face open. Something spikes high in Russell’s chest, something he’s got no name for.

“What is it?” Russell asks. He realizes he’s still holding Kevin’s hand and drops it. “You’re my brother, man, you can tell me, no worries.”

Kevin’s face shifts, falls in some unreadable way. He looks down at his feet, steps back. 

“No,” he says, and his voice is all wrong. “No.” He turns his back to Russell and runs a hand over his face, taking a harsh breath. 

“Bro, what?” Russell asks. “You’re freaking me out.” 

“I’m starting up yoga,” Kevin says, his voice pitched like he’s telling a joke, but it doesn’t come out that way, it comes out all wrong, all cracked.

“What?” Russell asks, knowing he’s not getting something. 

“For my balance,” Kevin says, turning back to Russ. He looks awful, his eyes dark. 

“Don’t worry about James,” Russell tells him. That’s what this is about. Fucking James Harden and the fucking Houston Rockets. “We don’t need anyone. Just each other.” He’s certain of it, bone deep.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, his voice quiet. He looks at the floor, then back up at Russell. “I know.” 

“Chill dude,” Russell says, clapping Kevin on the shoulder and turning, grabbing a basketball, wanting to get Kevin out of his own head. “Come on, let’s play.”

“Yeah,” Kevin says, letting Russell put the ball on the court and then immediately lunging for the steal. “Let’s go.” 

Russell evades, cursing at him, but he’s laughing already, driving for the basket. They’re going to be ok, he just knows. He dunks, exultant, and lands to see Kevin watching him.

“Top that,” he calls, and Kevin’s shoulders loosen, finally. He grins, invincible.

\--

It isn’t enough. They win the West and Russell is already looking east, thinking about the Heat, waiting for his re-match. 

Of course it’s Houston in the first round. It couldn’t be anyone else. Russell is ready, primed, and Kevin has that relaxed, predatory look to him in shoot-around. They’re unstoppable, the prickle of adrenaline under Russell’s skin, the ball at his fingertips. They take the first game at home. Who the fuck needs James Harden, Russell thinks. Who needs anyone but Kevin Durant, driving into the basket, looking back for his pass, depending on Russell. 

Game two, second quarter. Russell knows a timeout is coming, so he brings the ball up the court slowly, waiting for Coach to get his shit together and call it. Patrick Beverley ducks his shoulder down, going for the steal and driving his body into Russell’s, knocking the wind out of him, blindsiding him. 

He hits the court, sharp pain in his knee. He pushes himself up, cursing the fucking Rockets, glaring over at Harden sitting on the bench. He can’t put weight on his knee, he’s afraid to try. He’s so angry, terrified, unbalanced. 

He makes it to the huddle, trying not to limp. It doesn’t matter. 

“You ok?” Kevin asks, before Coach Brooks can. 

“Fine,” Russell says, curt. He can’t think. He bumps shoulders with Kevin, just to feel him there. They can do this. “Just a bruise, I think. I can play.”

He finishes the game. He can barely walk off the court, makes the mistake of sitting in front of his locker and then can’t stand up again. 

“Kev,” he calls, desperate, “give me a hand here?”

Kevin does, reaching down and pulling Russell up. He pulls Russell in for a hug and Russell leans into him to take the weight off his leg. 

“Can you get the trainer?” Russell asks, into the warmth of Kevin’s chest. Nothing has never hurt like this before. Russell’s always depended on his body, trusted it. He’s fine. He can’t be hurt. He struggles to leash his thoughts, keep himself calm somewhere beneath the pain.

“Yeah,” Kevin says. He rests his head briefly against Russell’s, and then goes.

The trainers come, serious-faced. They take him to the hospital where they run tests, doctors talking over his head at each other, on the phone with the team, like he isn’t there. 

They send him to Colorado for surgery. He doesn’t get to see the team again, doesn’t get to see Kevin again. They’ve all flown to Texas, without him. Russell spends the rest of the play-offs in a private hospital, morphine on his IV drip, without Kevin.

They survive against Houston, lose to Memphis. _He’s not there._ That’s all he can think, over and over. _He should be there and he’s not._ The haze of painkillers dulls him. He can’t do this without Kevin. 

\--

_July, 2013 -_

It’s a bright July day, the off-season. Most of the team is on vacation, home with their families, getting fat and drinking too much. Russell is back in Oklahoma City, finishing up his rehab.

The grind of rehab is the worst part of being injured: endless days at the gym doing reps of the same stuff over and over, not even allowed to touch a basketball. That, and the isolation of it. 

Russell doesn’t even try not to be jealous of his teammates. It chafes him. Russell wants to be back at his best, wants to be the best. Being trapped in Oklahoma City, mostly by himself, the endless grey monotony of it, drives him insane. Maybe that’s the idea, to drive him crazy so he’ll get back on the court sooner. It’s working. 

He gets to the practice facility early, just a few cars in the parking lot. Before Kevin, he notices, smug. He Snapchats Kevin a picture of the mostly empty parking lot, captions it “beat u.” 

Inside, he dumps his bags in the locker room and starts his warm-up. The building is quiet. It has high ceilings, with huge windows high up the walls. It reminds him of an empty church, the expectant silence of the place, the peace of it. The only sound is the squeak of his shoes on the hardwood. 

He’s stretching when he hears the click of high heels on the court. He turns, sees Lindsey from the press office walking towards him, a tight expression on her face. She’s talking on one phone and texting with another.

“Mr. Westbrook? Would you mind taking an interview?” she says. And then, into the phone, “Sorry, can I call you back?” 

Russell sighs. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He wants the quiet of the practice court back, wants to fucking play basketball, not talk about it. What would Kevin do, he thinks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Fine,” he says. “Can we do it quick?”

“Of course,” she promises. “Ten minutes, that’s all. You can even shoot around while you’re talking to him. It was supposed to be Kevin, but then he had a meeting with Coach Brooks and it’s some national guy, so I need to give him someone -”

Russell tunes her out. He’s torn between being annoyed - he’s not Kevin Durant’s fucking backup - and worry. Kevin didn’t mention a meeting, didn’t say anything, the asshole. 

“Cool,” Russell says. “Let’s do this then.”

“Thanks so much, Mr. Westbrook,” she says, hurrying off to go get the reporter. “I owe you one.”

Russell sighs. He goes to grab a basketball so he’ll have something to do with his hands during the interview, at least. He’s not technically supposed to be overworking his injured knee, but a few free throws won’t hurt, probably. 

Lindsey comes out, the reporter following her. Russell recognizes him, but doesn’t remember his name. Some guy with a fucking blog, who thinks he knows anything about what it’s like to play in the NBA. Thinks he understands what pressure is, thinks he can criticize Russell and Kevin.

“Hey,” Russell says, squaring himself to shoot. 

The guy starts off the same way all reporters do, like it’s a fucking script they learned in college - thanks so much, my name is, I work for, mind if I ask you some questions, do you mind if I record this - as if every minute of Russell’s life isn’t being recorded, by his coaches and the media and by people on fucking Twitter.

“Sure,” Russell says, to all of it. That’s how it goes, the illusion of choice he gets.

The guy asks the standard questions: What’s your timeline for recovery, does the Thunder have a chance without you, what would happen if Kevin couldn’t play either, do you think you’re a horrible selfish player and person, do you and Kevin secretly hate each other, how do you ever expect to win in the West without James Harden? 

Russell grits his teeth and tries to answer like he’s hasn’t heard this shit a thousand times. The timeline for his return is still up in the air, but he can’t wait to get back on court; he doesn’t care about his own stats, just getting wins; he and Kevin are like brothers; they don’t need James Harden, they don’t need anyone - they have enough to win a championship.

He and Kevin are enough, they have to be, because no other outcome is acceptable. He doesn’t tell the reporter that, though. 

Russell thinks the interview is wrapping up when the guy says, “How’s Durant handling it?” 

“Handling what?” Russell asks, bristling. 

“The pressure he’s under. After you got injured, he was leading the team and you guys couldn’t make it back to the Western Conference finals, let alone the Finals. Does he feel like his window is closing?”

“You’d have to ask him that,” Russell says, because he and Kevin don’t go behind each other’s backs like that. He can see the headline now: Westbrook Says Kevin Durant Will Never Win a Championship, twisting his words into something he never meant. 

The reporter nods and moves on, finishing up his questions. But Russell is still thinking, how _is_ Kevin handling it? What if the reporter is right, what if something is really wrong with Kevin and Russell has no idea? 

What if their window is closing and they can’t stop it. What if they never get a ring together. What if their best is never good enough; or worse, what if they never get a chance to play their best together. What if all this is over before it got a chance to start. 

Russell has to stop thinking like this. 

\--

When the reporters leaves, it’s just him and two trainers. Russell tries to work himself into exhaustion, to make himself stop thinking. After two hours, one of the trainers, Jane, tells him to start stretching. “We’re done, Russ,” she says. 

“I can go some more,” Russell says. “My legs feel good.” They feel ok, at least. At little rubbery, slow to respond but he doesn’t care. He wants to keep going. He wants to push.

She gives him a sympathetic look, which he ignores. “Stretch and then go ice,” she says. 

He takes his time on the mats, throwing in some yoga shit with his usual cool-down stretches to draw it out. Maybe it’ll help. He feels unsettled, unquiet though, and breathing in and out on long seven counts doesn’t seem to help.

He’s in the middle of Warrior I when he hears the door slam. He shifts to Warrior II early so he can look over and see who it is.

It’s Kevin, trailed by two trainers of his own and an assistant coach. They all have to take two steps for each one of Kevin’s. Russell grins, his bad mood gone. He loves watching Kevin when he’s like this, three seconds from losing his shit and doing everything he can to hold it back. 

“You have to understand - ” one of the trainers begins and Kevin turns on him. Usually, off the court, Kevin slouches a little bit, hunches forward just slightly, accommodating everyone else, a little sheepish. Right now though he’s standing straight, towering over everyone else in the room, commanding. 

Russell gives up on yoga and stands, hands on his hips, watching, his lower lip caught between his teeth. It’s silent in the room. Russell is hyper-aware of his own breathing, of the tension in Kevin’s back and his hands, the way he seems poised for violence. Like the way he can be, unpredictably, on the court, when he can’t miss his threes, when he plays like he can stop time.

Kevin throws a look over his shoulder and sees Russell and pauses, biting back what he was about to say. Russell watches as Kevin’s shoulders round down again. The trainer relaxes and Kevin looks down at the ground, a little sheepish. 

“Yeah,” Kevin says, “You’re right, my bad.”

The trainer claps Kevin on the shoulder and Russell watches as Kevin accepts the gesture; neither leaning into the contact nor rejecting it. 

“Hey Kev,” Russell calls, “want to ice?”

Kevin looks back at him and Russell can see Kevin still himself again, the effort of it. “Sure,” he says, and follows Russ towards the ice bath in the next room.

Russ strips off his shirt and throw it on the floor, then sits down on the floor to take off his Nikes. “What was that all about?” he asks, looking up at Kevin. 

Kevin looks down at Russell and bites his lip. Russell rolls his eyes - the door’s shut, it’s not like it matters anyway - and throws his sneakers next to his shirt. He rolls his hips up and pulls his work-out pants off, leaving just his compression shorts on.

Kevin’s just watching him, silent. 

“What?” Russell asks, putting out his good hand so that Kevin can pull him up. His quads are sore. Kevin takes his hands and pulls, easily, the momentum carrying Russell forward so that Russell ends up brushing against Kevin’s chest with his shoulders.

Russell steps back, dropping Kevin’s eyes and stepping into the ice bath, wincing at the cold. When he does, Kevin lets out a long breath, shakes his head as if it to clear it, and starts taking off his shirt.

“It’s stupid,” Kevin says.

“Of course it’s stupid,” Russell agrees, “it’s you.”

Kevin laughs and flips Russell off. He’s trying to take his pants off, but they’re all tangled up in his Nikes, which makes Russell laugh too. Finally, Kevin gives up and sits down, taking off his shoes and then pulling off his pants down to his compression shorts also, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on untangling himself. He hops on one foot towards the ice bath, and then steps in, steadying himself on Russell’s shoulder. 

“So,” Russell says, leaning against the edge of the ice bath. 

“Fuck off, Russ,” Kevin says, wincing at the cold of the ice bath.

“No, seriously, what’s your deal?” Russell says. He’s bad at this, talking about feelings. He can’t stop thinking about what the reporter asked: _How’s Kevin handling it?_ Russell is Kevin’s best friend, Russell should be able to tell if Kevin’s fine or not without picking a fight.

“Jesus, Russ, what the fuck does it matter?” Kevin’s voice shakes a little bit. “It’s - it’s everything. It’s fucking everything, ok?”

“Hey,” Russell says, “Don’t be mad at me, ok? I get it.”

Kevin lets out a hollow laugh. “You don’t. You,” he looks over at Russell. “God, you have no idea.” He sounds hopeless.

“Fuck you, I missed the playoffs,” Russell says, like Kevin could have forgotten. Something in his chest clenches. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe Kevin’s angry because Russell wasn’t there when Kevin needed him most. 

Kevin lets out a slow breath, and Russell can see him trying to calm down. “Sorry, I know this sucks for you too. There’s just - other stuff.”

“What other stuff?” Russell asks. What did the doctor say? Are they - “Shit, dude, are they trading one of us?”

“No,” Kevin says, his voice still tight. “God, no. It’s nothing, it’s just shit that’s been going on forever, it doesn’t matter.” 

“You sure?” Russell asks. “I’m just trying to help you out here.”

“I’m sure,” Kevin says, quiet. “Don’t worry about it, Russ. It’s just some dumb, impossible shit.” 

“Hey,” Russell says, knocking their hips together, trying to get a reaction, a smile, something. “Impossible is what we do.” 

“Yeah,” Kevin says, looking down at him, his face unreadable. “Yeah.”

A trainer comes in just then, before Russell can say anything else.

“Guys, they want you to go watch tape now,” he calls, and Kevin steps out of the ice bath, toweling off and agreeing too quickly, not looking back at Russell.

So they go and watch tape for teams it feels like they’re never going to play against. Seriously, who gives a fuck about Portland right now? Sitting in the conference room with a couple of assistant coaches, Russell feels like screaming. Kevin is next to him, attentive, eyes fixed on the screen. He makes notes sometimes, in a little Moleskin he carries around. 

Russell wants to throw a chair across the room. He thinks about what Kevin would do if Russell lost his temper, broke something. Would Kevin get in his face, push him up against a wall, hold him there, finally lose some of his fucking blank-faced control? How far could Russell push him?

Russell thinks about the thunderstorms that roll across the plains, catastrophes out of the clear sky. Heat crackling, held back by the haze until it breaks, spectacularly, lightening bolts so bright they burn the sky purple, thunder that shakes the walls. 

He wonders if Kevin just needs that spark to go off.

\-- 

Kevin does go off. Spectacularly, as it turns out. He starts the season playing like he can see into the future, like he has a grudge against the entire league. Maybe he can, maybe he does. Maybe he’s holding something inside of him that drives him.

Russell spends his time after games icing his knee and watching SportsCenter for hours. Late one night in Philly, in one of the never-ending series of identical hotel rooms, there’s a knock. It’s Kevin.

“I should just give you my spare key,” Russ says, opening the door. “It would save me getting out of bed.”

“I’m honored,” Kevin says, in that dry tone somewhere between sarcasm and sincerity. He gives Russell an arm to help him hop back to bed. 

“You need some water?” Kevin asks. 

“Sure,” Russ says, and Kevin tosses him a water bottle, grabs himself a bottle of whiskey from the minibar. 

"Want anything else?" Kevin asks, and Russell shakes his head.

"Too many painkillers," he tells Kevin. Kevin winces at that, and Russell looks away from him, back at the TV.

He can hear the sounds of Kevin making himself a drink, and then the bed dips and Kevin settles himself next to Russell. They're nearly touching, the warmth of Kevin's skin, the clean, post-game smell of him permeating the space between them. 

"How you doing?" Kevin asks. 

Russ shrugs. It's probably innocently meant, but lately, that's all anyone asks him. Journalists and coaches and doctors, the same professionally probing questions. _How are you holding up?_ Looking for a story, for a weakness, for another reason to cut him open and take him away from the team.

"Ok," Russell says, prevaricating. "Dude, you've been killing it lately." 

Kevin gets bashful at that, looking down and scrubbing a hand over his face. It's pretty cute, actually. The thought makes Russell start. That’s a weird thing to think about Kevin. But it’s true. Looking over at Kevin, in the half light of the TV, he’s vulnerable, his eyelashes long and dark, his expression soft. He looks like someone’s boyfriend. 

“Yeah,” Kevin says. “Not too bad. You know.” 

Russ snorts at the understatement. In the dark of the room, just the two of them, Kevin’s basketball seems like a secret between the two of them, not something broadcast around the world for everyone to see. 

“Are you–” Kevin pauses and seems to reconsider. 

“Just ask, dude,” Russell says.

“You’re not ok,” Kevin says, “are you?” 

Russell looks at the TV and then back at Kevin, his eyes catching on him. “Not really,” he says. He’s terrified his body is letting him down, just when the team needs him most. Just when Kevin needs him most. “I think I’m going to need surgery again.”

He hasn’t said it out loud yet to anyone, not even to his mom.

“Russ,” Kevin says, quietly, just that and then nothing else. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s not getting better,” Russell chokes out. “It’s.” He gestures towards his knee; propped up on pillows and immobilized, and ice pack strapped to it. He's taking enough painkillers to make his stomach hurt too much to sleep some nights; getting injections before each game.

“Maybe you’ll be fine,” Kevin says. “This shit takes time, right?” He reaches out, his hand gentle on Russell’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry about the playoffs,” Russell says. “I’m sorry about - ” He cuts off, wiping his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. “I let you down.” 

“Don’t,” Kevin says, “Russell, please, don’t.”

“It’s not going to be ok,” Russell says. “It’s not going to get better.” He takes a breath, trying to calm himself. In for seven, hold for seven, out for seven. “They’re already talking to a specialist.” He tries not to think about it, getting flown out to Colorado again, away from Kevin. The loneliness of another rehab stint. 

“You didn’t let me down. You couldn’t let me down,” Kevin says, fierce. His hand tightens on Russell’s shoulder. “If you missed the rest of the season, I would - I’d take care of it.” Russell can’t stand the thought of Kevin playing without him

“I just. I thought it would be over by now. What if I feel this way forever?” 

Kevin huffs out a horrible, humorless laugh. “Tell me about it,” he says.

“Fuck,” Russell says, hurt by that without understanding it. “I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t ask for this fucking knee.” He wipes his eyes again, glad it’s dark.

Kevin turns so he’s facing Russell and Russell slumps back against the pillows. Fuck. He feels too much, roiling up inside him.

“That’s not what I meant,” Kevin says, and his hand slides from Russell’s shoulder to the back of his neck, cupping it. Kevin’s thumb brushes against Russell’s pulse, gentle. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Then what did you mean?” Russell asks, frustrated. He’s sick of this, all of this. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kevin says, looking down. In the blue light of the TV he looks tired, sad. “Stupid shit.” He pulls his hand back, leaning away from Russell.

“What stupid shit?” Russell says, reaching out and grabbing Kevin’s arm. “What’s going on?” Is Kevin hurt too, is there something with the team, _how is Kevin handling it?_ “If something’s wrong, I need to fucking know, Kevin.”

“Russell,” Kevin says, two helpless syllables. 

Something high in Russell’s chest aches, makes it hurt to look at Kevin and hurt to look away. It’s the same pain that pushes him to come to practice early, to stay late, all those endless hours in the gym with Kevin. 

“Tell me,” Russell says. Kevin leans forward and presses a kiss to Russell’s lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says, getting up. Russell feels the loss of his warmth. “Get some sleep.” And then he’s gone.

Russell lies awake in the darkness turning over his thoughts. His knee hurts too much to shift positions, so he lies, fixed. He can feel Kevin’s lips on him. It didn’t mean anything. But then, why did Kevin apologize? And why is Russell still thinking about it? And. Why does Russell think of Kevin as soon as he wakes up and when he went under anesthesia? How does he know Kevin’s going to pass a second before he does and the way Kevin looks when he steps out of the shower and the quiet, tired look he gets after loses?

The next morning, they drive into New York City. Russell sits by himself on the bus, leaning against the window and watching the city rise up around them. He shuts his eyes and thinks about Kevin, about how badly it hurt, losing. The trophy they don’t have, the rings they never got. He wanted their names linked like that, indelible, forever. He shifts and his knee aches dully through the pain meds.

It fucks Russell up, wanting something this badly. He wonders how Kevin survives it.

They win the game. Russell barely remembers it, Kevin plays incredibly. Afterwards, he sits with the trainers and lets them inject his knee. 

“Can you hand me my phone?” he asks a trainer.

“Sure,” she says, and he bends down, texts Kevin. It occurs to Russell that there will be consequences for this. But he thinks of Kevin and it’s like there are two seconds on the clock, the game on the line, the ball in his hand. The kind of pressure Russell has spent his life looking for, the kind of pressure that makes you want to be the best.

A couple of minutes later Kevin appears, head already ducked in apology. He’s dressed already, has maybe already talked to the press. Russell is sitting alone in the trainer’s room.

“You wanted to see me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Russell says. “Can you give me a hand?”

Kevin reaches down, pulls Russell to his feet easily. Kevin is looking down at him, his face a complicated mix of emotions Russell thinks he might finally be able to read. Russell leans into him, just for a second. Kevin’s chest is warm and firm, the fabric of his shirt soft. Russell brings his arms around Kevin’s waist and presses his face into Kevin’s chest. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but that’s a distant concern.

Kevin stiffens, but then wraps his arms around Russell too. He rubs slow circles into Russell’s back.

“Did you mean it?” Russell asks, into the space between them. “Last night.” 

“Yeah,” Kevin says, his voice warm and tired. “Yeah, I did.” 

“Ok,” Russell says, his lips brushing against the fabric of Kevin’s shirt. 

“Did the doctor say anything?” Kevin asks and Russell would shrug, but that might make Kevin move his arms.

“How long have you.” Russ stops. He doesn’t know how to ask, but he has to know. His heart is beating against Kevin’s chest.

Kevin swallows. "Since. When I met you." Russell looks up. Kevin is biting his lip, his eyes brown and liquid.

“Russ?” Kevin asks. “Can I."

“Sure,” Russell says. “Whatever you want.” He pauses. “What do you want?”

Kevin laughs, a huff of breath between them. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean,” Kevin says, and it’s a joke but it’s not, Russell knows it. 

“I’m not,” Russell says. Kevin is warm and alive under his hands. Everything else is distant. _Our whole lives_ , Russell thinks, giddiness rising within him. _Holy shit._

“I don’t think I could handle it if you - ” Kevin starts. 

“I’m in,” Russell says, “I’ve always been all in.” He rises up, just a little bit, and Kevin meets him halfway.

Kevin walks Russell back until he hits the wall. Russell’s dazed by it, his skin burning where they touch. Kevin is bigger than him, surrounding him. He’s kissing Russell like one of them is dying. 

“Christ,” Russell says, when Kevin pulls back, just for a second. Kevin runs a hand up Russell’s neck and rubs a thumb along his jawline. Russell feels his cheeks getting hot. His breaths catch, uneven. Outside the trainer’s room he can hear the distant voices of the team, the press. This is insane; that this is happening at all is insane. 

“Russell,” Kevin says, desperate, and, fuck, Russell wants Kevin to say his name like that, over and over. He surges up, kissing Kevin with teeth, hooking his leg around the back of Kevin’s to get them closer together. Kevin’s hard against him, his hands dropping to Russell’s back, shucking up his uniform there to touch skin, then to Russell’s hips, then back up, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch the most. 

“It was always you,” Kevin says. “You have to. From the start, it was always you.” His lips are so close to Russell’s. Russell can feel Kevin shaking and that’s something, Kevin Durant, undone by him - by this. 

“You idiot,” Russell says, trying to get Kevin’s pants undone between them. What kind of asshole wears jeans with buttons on the fly, honestly. “You mean we could have been doing this for years?”

“Shut up,” Kevin says, and then gasps, sharp, as Russell gets a hand on him. Kevin kisses the top of Russell’s head and then slides his hand between them, pushing Russell’s pants down to the tops of his thighs.

“Let me,” Kevin says, “Ok, Russ, please, can I?” Russell can feel Kevin against him everywhere: pressing him against the wall, his chest, his lips, his dick. God, he wants so much more. Even with Kevin this close he’s aching for him.

“Yeah,” Russell says, pushing himself into Kevin, desperate and unashamed. Kevin gets a hand - huge, warm, callused - around both of them. Russell shudders, pressing his lips to Kevin’s neck to keep himself. Kevin swears quietly, his breath coming in tight, controlled pants. 

His hand is moving between them, relentless. Russell rocks his hips, trusting Kevin to set the rhythm and wishing he’d hurry the fuck up. He has to shut his eyes, it’s so good. How can anything feel this good. He comes, wordless and boneless against Kevin.

“Russ, please, I,” Kevin says, and then, “God,” as he comes.

They stay like that for a second, Kevin pressed against Russell, Russell leaning on the wall. There’s a noise from outside; someone calling.

“Shit,” Kevin says. Russell pulls up his pants, and pulls off his jersey, wiping them both down with it. He balls it up and shoves it in the bottom of his gym bag. When he looks up, Kevin is looking at him, warm, like sunlight. Russell wants to bask in it, in him. Kevin reaches out, just touching his shoulder and the warmth of it shoots through Russell. It’s insane.

“We gotta get going,” Russell says. His voice is a little unsteady.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, gripping Russell’s arm for a second and then letting go. “Later though, yeah?” His voice goes rough there, just a little, and it makes something curl deep in Russell’s stomach.

“Yeah,” Russell agrees, “we got nothing but time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to my betas for all of their help. The timeline here is accurate to the best of my abilities.


End file.
